The Captain's Daughter

by Alexander Pushkin

  I lived the life of a young ignoramus, [7] chasing pigeons and playing leapfrog with the sons of the house serfs. And so I reached the age of sixteen. Then my life changed.

  One autumn day Mother was making honey preserves in the parlor and I was licking my lips as I watched the boiling froth. Father was sitting by the window and reading the Court Almanac, [8] which he received every year. This volume always had a powerful effect on him; he could never read it without growing remarkably choleric. Mother, who knew all his foibles only too well, would try to hide the wretched book as far out of sight as possible; some years whole months passed by before he even set eyes on it. But when Father did at last come across it, it would be hours before he could put it down again. And so, Father was reading the Court Almanac, harrumphing from time to time and muttering under his breath, “Lieutenant General [9]—and he used to be a sergeant in my platoon! Knight of the two highest Russian orders! [10] It seems only the other day that we . . .” In the end Father flung the Almanac down on the couch and sank into deep thought; this boded ill.

  Suddenly he turned to Mother. “Avdotya Vasilyevna, how old is Petrusha now?”

  “It’s not long now since he turned sixteen,” she replied. “He was born the same year Auntie Nastasya Gerasimovna went blind in one eye and when—”

  “Very well,” interrupted Father. “It’s time he saw service. He’s had more than enough of clambering around dovecots and hanging about the maids’ rooms.” The thought of an imminent separation so overwhelmed Mother that tears began to flow down her cheeks and she dropped her spoon into the saucepan. My own elation, on the other hand, was almost beyond words. Army life was inseparable in my mind from the concept of freedom and the joys of life in Petersburg. I would be an officer in the Guards; this meant that I would be enjoying the ultimate in human happiness.

  Father was not someone to reconsider his decisions or delay their implementation. The date of my departure was set. The day before I was due to leave, Father announced that he wanted to give me a letter for my future commanding officer, and he asked for pen and paper.

  “Don’t forget, Andrey Petrovich,” said Mother, “to send greetings to Prince B. from me too. Please say that I hope he will keep a gracious eye on our Petrusha.”

  “What’s got into you?” replied Father, frowning. “Why should I be writing to Prince B.?”

  “But didn’t you just say you wished to write to Petrusha’s commanding officer?”

  “And what if I did?”

  “Well, Petrusha’s commanding officer is Prince. B. Petrusha’s enrolled in the Semyonov regiment.”

  “The Semyonov regiment! What do I care about the Semyonov regiment? I’m not having our Petrusha going to Petersburg. What’s he going to learn from service in Petersburg? To be a rake and a spendthrift! No, let him serve in the real army. Let him toil and sweat and smell gunpowder. Let him be a true soldier—not some fop of a turncoat [11] in the Guards! Where’s his passport?[12] Bring it here.”

  Mother got out my passport, which she kept in a chest along with my christening shirt, and gave it with a trembling hand to Father. Father read it through, placed it on the desk in front of him and began his letter.

  I was in an agony of curiosity: where was I being sent, if not to Petersburg? I couldn’t take my eyes off Father’s pen as it moved slowly across the page. At last he finished the letter, sealed it in an envelope together with my passport, removed his glasses, beckoned me over and said, “This is a letter for you to take to Andrey Karlovich R., an old comrade and friend of mine. You’re going to Orenburg to serve under his command.”[13]

  All my brilliant hopes were dashed. What awaited me was not the gaiety of Petersburg but the tedium of life in a godforsaken backwater. Army service, which only a moment ago I had been looking forward to with such glee, now seemed a heavy burden. But it was no use protesting. Next morning a hooded sleigh was brought round to the main door. In it were loaded my trunk; a wooden chest [14] with cups, plates and a teapot; and some parcels containing pies and white bread rolls—the last tokens of the pampered life I had enjoyed at home. My parents gave me their blessing. Father said, “Goodbye, Pyotr. Serve faithfully the sovereign to whom you pledge your allegiance; [15] obey your superiors; do not curry favor; do not volunteer for duties; do not shirk duties; and remember the saying, “Take care of your clothes when they are new and your honor when you are young.” Mother tearfully exhorted me to take care of my health—and Savelich to look after “the child.” I was wrapped up warmly: in a fox-fur overcoat over a hare-skin coat. I got in beside Savelich and set off, weeping bitterly.

  That evening I reached Simbirsk, [16] where I was to stay for one day while Savelich purchased various necessities. I put up at an inn. In the morning Savelich went off to the market. Bored with looking out of the window onto a dirty side street, I wandered from one room to another. In the billiard room I saw a tall gentleman in a dressing gown; he looked about thirty-five and he had a long black moustache, a cue in one hand, and a pipe between his teeth. He was playing the scorer, who was given a shot of vodka each time he won and had to crawl under the table each time he lost. I watched them play. The longer the match went on, the more often the scorer had to go down on all fours, until in the end he was unable to get up from beneath the table. The gentleman pronounced a few strong words over him by way of a funeral oration and asked if I would like a game myself. I said I did not know how to play. The gentleman seemed to find this strange. He looked at me with something like pity; nevertheless, we started to talk. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin and that he was a captain in the Regiment of Hussars; he was in Simbirsk to receive recruits [17] and was staying at the inn. He invited me to have lunch with him, saying we would be taking pot luck, soldier fashion. I accepted this invitation gladly. We sat down to table. Zurin drank a great deal, refilling my glass along with his own and telling me I must get used to army ways. He told me stories of army life that almost made me fall off my chair laughing, and we got up from table the best of friends. Then he volunteered to teach me to play billiards. “It’s imperative,” he said, “for the likes of us soldiers. Suppose you’re on the march and you come to some little town. What are you going to do with yourself? You can’t be beating up Yids all day long. Like it or not, you end up at an inn playing billiards. But not unless you know how to play!” I was entirely convinced, and I began my study of the game with great diligence. Zurin was loud in his encouragement, marveled at my quick progress and, after a few lessons, suggested we play for money, for very low stakes—two-kopek coins—just so as not to play for no stakes at all, which he considered a most detestable practice. I agreed to this too. Then Zurin ordered some punch and persuaded me to give it a try, saying I must get used to army life—and what would life in the army be like without punch? I obeyed him. We went on playing. The more often I sipped from my glass, the more daring I grew. My balls flew off the table; I got more and more excited, I cursed the scorer for not knowing how to score properly, I repeatedly raised the stakes—in short, I behaved like any young lad kicking over the traces. Meanwhile, the hours slipped by. Zurin glanced at his watch, laid down his cue, and informed me that I had lost a hundred rubles. This was a little embarrassing. My money was with Savelich. I began to apologize. Zurin interrupted: “Heavens above! Don’t let that trouble you for one moment. I can wait. And now let’s go to Arinushka’s.”

  What was I to do? I finished the day as waywardly as I began it. We dined at Arinushka’s. Zurin kept topping up my glass, repeating that I must get used to army life. When I got up from table, I could hardly stand; it was midnight when Zurin drove me back to the inn.

  Savelich met us on the porch. He groaned, seeing the unmistakable evidence of my new enthusiasm for army life. “What’s happened to you, sir?” he asked miserably. “Where on earth have you been, to get yourself so soused? Heavens above! Never before have I seen you like this.” “Shut up, you old grumbler!” I replied stumblingly. “You must
be drunk. Go to bed . . . and help me undress.”

  In the morning I woke with a headache; I tried confusedly to recall the events of the previous day. My thoughts were interrupted by Savelich, who came in with a cup of tea. “It’s early days, Pyotr Andreich,” he said, shaking his head, “early days to be going out on the razzle like this. Who can you be taking after? Neither your father nor your grandfather was ever a drunkard, and as for your mother—never in her life has she wished to touch anything stronger than kvass.[18] And who’s to blame? Why, that blasted Monseer. Never stopped pestering poor Antipovna with his “Madam, zhe voo pree, vodkah!” Well, there’s zhe voo pree for you! Fine ways you’ve learned from that son of a dog! Why did the master have to go and hire a heathen to tutor you, as if there aren’t enough of our own folk?”

  I felt ashamed. I turned my back on him and said, “Go away, Savelich. I don’t want any tea.” But once Savelich got preaching it was not easy to stop him. “So there’s the joys of drinking for you, Pyotr Andreich. Your head aches, and you don’t want to eat. A man who drinks is good for nothing. Have a little brine from the pickled cucumbers—you can take it with honey. Or best of all for the morning after is a half glass of vodka cordial. What do you say to that?”

  At that moment a boy came in and handed me a note from I.I. Zurin. I unfolded it and read:

  Dear Pyotr Andreich,

  Be so good as to send to me, with this boy of mine, the hundred rubles you lost to me yesterday. I am in urgent need of money.

  Ever at your service,

  Ivan Zurin

  There was nothing for it. I assumed an air of indifference, turned to Savelich, who kept my purse, my clothes and ordered my affairs, [19] and told him to give the boy a hundred rubles. “What do you mean? Why on earth?” asked Savelich in amazement. “To settle a debt,” I replied as coolly as I possibly could. “To settle a debt!” replied Savelich, his amazement still growing. “But when, sir, did you find time to run up such a debt? There’s something I don’t like about all this. Say what you will, master, but I shan’t give him the money.”

  Telling myself that this was a critical moment and that if I did not get the better of the obstinate old man now I would find it harder than ever to escape his supervision in future, I looked haughtily at Savelich and said, “I am your master, and you are my servant. The money is mine. I lost it because I chose to lose it. I advise you not to try to be clever but to do as you’re told.”

  Savelich was so stunned by my words that he just threw up his hands and stood there without moving. “Don’t just stand there!” I shouted angrily. Savelich began to weep. “Dear master, Pyotr Andreich,” he said in a trembling voice, “don’t break my heart. Light of my eyes, listen to me, listen to an old man: write to that brigand and tell him that you were only joking and that we don’t have that kind of money. A hundred rubles! Merciful heavens! Tell him that your parents have strictly forbidden you to gamble for anything except nuts.” “That’ll do,” I said sternly. “Bring me the money or I’ll throw you out by the scruff of your neck.”

  Savelich looked at me with deep sorrow and went to fetch what I owed. I felt sorry for the poor old man, but I was determined to kick over the traces and show that I was no longer a child. The money was delivered to Zurin. Savelich hurried to get me away from that accursed inn. He came and told me that the horses were ready. It was with a troubled conscience and silent remorse that I left Simbirsk, not taking leave of my teacher of the previous day or expecting ever to see him again.

  2. THE GUIDE

  Land of mine, dear land,

  Land unknown to me!

  What brought me here was not my will,

  What bore me here was not my steed,

  What drew me here was reckless youth

  And tavern wine.

  —OLD SONG

  MY REFLECTIONS as we journeyed on were not pleasant. The sum I had lost, in relation to the prices of the time, was not inconsiderable. Deep down I could not help admitting that I had behaved foolishly at the Simbirsk inn, and I felt guilty before Savelich. All this upset me. The old man was sitting sullenly beside the driver, looking the other way and, from time to time, sighing noisily. I knew I had to make my peace with him yet did not know how to go about it. In the end I said, “Savelich, dear Savelich! Enough of this, let’s make up. I’m at fault; I can see that I’m at fault. I behaved foolishly yesterday and I offended you for no reason. I promise to behave more sensibly now, and to listen to you. Please don’t be angry; let’s make up.”

  “Oh, Pyotr Andreich!” he replied with a deep sigh. “Dear master! It’s myself I’m angry with—it’s me who’s to blame. Why did I leave you alone in the inn? The Devil must have been at my elbow. I took it into my head to visit my godchild’s mother, the sexton’s wife. Yes—too much prattle, you’ll hear jail keys rattle. It’s a bad business! Whatever are the master and mistress going to think of me now? Whatever are they going to say when they hear that their child’s learned to drink and gamble?”

  To console poor Savelich, I promised from then on not to spend so much as a kopek without his consent. Gradually he calmed down, though he went on shaking his head now and again and muttering, “A hundred rubles! That’s no joke!”

  I was nearing my destination. Round about stretched a desolate wilderness, broken up by hills and gullies. Everything was covered by snow. The sun was setting. The sleigh was following a narrow road—or rather a track made by the peasants’ sledges. Suddenly the driver began casting anxious looks into the distance; then he turned to me, doffed his cap and said, “Best turn back, sir, don’t you think?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t trust the weather. The wind’s getting up. Look—it’s blowing up the loose snow.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, look over there then!” He pointed to the east with his whip.

  “All I can see is white steppe and clear sky.”

  “But that cloud! Can’t you see that little cloud?”

  Just above the horizon I could indeed see a tiny white cloud that I had at first mistaken for a distant hill. The driver explained to me that this little cloud presaged a blizzard.

  I had heard of the blizzards in these parts, and I knew that they sometimes buried whole caravans of sledges. Savelich, like the driver, advised me to turn back. But the wind did not seem at all strong; trusting we could reach the next post station in good time, I ordered the driver to press on.

  We drove on, the driver glancing repeatedly to the east. The horses galloped with a will. The wind, however, was growing stronger by the minute. The tiny cloud turned into a white storm cloud, which grew larger and climbed ponderously higher until it extended across the entire sky. A fine snow began to fall; then the air was full of huge flakes. The wind howled; the storm began. In a moment the dark sky merged with a sea of snow. Everything vanished. “A real blizzard!” the driver yelled. “We’re in trouble.”

  I peered out from under the sleigh’s hood: nothing but darkness and whirlwind. There was such savagery, such expression in the howls of the wind that it seemed like something alive. Soon Savelich and I were both covered in snow; the horses slowed to a walk, then stopped. “Why are you stopping?” I asked the driver. “What else can I do?” he replied, climbing down off his box. “Heaven knows where we are. The road’s vanished, and it’s pitch dark.” I was about to start berating him, but Savelich took his side. “That’s what you get for not listening,” he said angrily. “We could have gone back to the inn, drunk tea to our hearts’ content and enjoyed a good night’s sleep. The storm would have died down and we’d have gone on our way. Why the hurry? We’re not going to a wedding, are we?” Savelich was right. But there was nothing we could do. The snow fell thick and fast. A drift was forming beside the sleigh. The horses were hanging their heads; now and again they shuddered, but otherwise they were not moving. The driver walked round in circles, adjusting the harness for the sake of something to do. Savelich went on grumbling; I looked in every
direction, hoping to glimpse some sign of a track or a dwelling, but all I could make out was the opaque swirl of the snowstorm. Then I saw something black. “Hey, driver!” I shouted. “What’s that over there? Look—that black thing!” The driver stared into the falling snow. “Lord only knows, sir,” he said, getting back onto his seat. “Not quite a cart, not quite a tree, and it looks like it’s moving. Must be either wolf or man.”

  I told him to make for the unknown object, which at once began to move towards us. Two minutes later we were drawing level with a man. “Hey, good sir!” shouted the driver. “Can you tell us where the road is?”

  “The road’s right here under my feet, I’m standing on firm ground,” replied the wayfarer, “but you won’t get far tonight!”

  “Listen, good sir,” I said. “Do you know these parts? Can you guide me to somewhere I can shelter for the night?”

  “I know this land well enough,” said the wayfarer. “By the grace of God I’ve travelled the length and breadth of this steppe, on foot and on horseback. But in weather like this—no, we’ll lose the way in no time at all. Best just to stay put. If the storm dies down and the sky clears, we can find our way by the stars.”

  His composure gave me new heart. I had already resolved to put my trust in God’s will and spend the night out on the steppe when the wayfarer suddenly jumped up onto the box and said to the driver, “There’s a house not far away, God be praised. Turn to the right, then keep straight on.”